Saturday, 14 December 2013

Isabella Johns: A Secret, a Confession and a Guilty Pleasure

As part of my occasional series, A Secret, a Confession and a Guilty Pleasure , today I'm thrilled that my guest post is from author Isabella Johns, author of My Hot Fireman.

A Secret:

A lot of people think that my stories are
based on my personal experience. But I
live a rather moderate, sedate life.
Fact is, very often I’m inspired by things that happen to my younger
sister. She is lot more impulsive. Crazy things always seems to happen to
her. I’m not saying MY HOT FIREMAN is based on her true life activities, but she does
live right next to a firehouse in New York City!

A Confession:

Sometimes I wish I could be my younger
sister. My life is so predictable,
especially since getting married. She is
still single and lives a very unencumbered existence. I often wonder what it would be like to meet
someone new and have open the possibility that we might get together, that some
fresh sparks could actually fly. Of
course sometimes my sister envies the stability in my life. But I wouldn’t mind one of those hall passes
for a day that allowed me to do anything I want. Fireman Paul, watch out!

A Guilty Pleasure:

Like so many others, my guilty pleasure is
watching the cable series Homeland
with complete passion and loyalty. For
me it was extra intense, because we only recently signed up for the Showtime
channel on cable. Then to find out you
can click on the series and see the past episodes anytime you want. Well, that did it. I started watching one after the other. It was so much more thrilling to see all of
the action unfurl at once and not have to wait a whole week to find out what
happens next. I’m obsessed! I could have done all three seasons
continuously, but managed to space them out over four exhausting days. Unfortunately, now I’m all caught up and have
to wait for each Sunday. If only Carrie
would stop tearing up on a dime and lose the lip quiver. No matter, it’s a great show!

EXCERPT
FROM MY HOT FIREMAN

by Isabella Johns

Or perhaps he knows I’ve undressed him from my window while
fingering myself into profound dirty ecstasy.

Who the fuck cares?

I literally rip off his shirt, scattering a few buttons, because I’m
so eager to see and touch his masculine fineness.

Oh shit!

It’s exactly like I envisioned from my window, imagined in my bed.

So completely smooth and hairless, it’s for sure he has done some
waxing of his own. And those nipples,
perfectly brown and large, jutting with muscled strength.

But this is really not like my bedroom fantasies where I lay back
and allowed him to have his way.

I’m a tigress set free as I break away from his mouth and attack his
chest with my tongue, licking a set of wet stripes all over that sweet body.

I take the brownish nipples into my mouth and suck and his head goes
back and he lets out a deep moan.

How invigorating that I can still make a man react like this.

How different his body feels compared to what I’m used to.

My ex was never fat, but his chest and stomach always had a sort of
looseness, never toned.

Give toned a Google search
and you’ll see Fireman Paul’s picture.

He’s a lot gentler with my blouse, which I’m grateful for,
considering what I paid for it, but the results are the same and my blouse and
bra soon join his shirt to form a pile on the floor.

He wants to return the favor with my nipples, but I just can’t get
enough of this man. I manage to reverse
our positions and soon have him pinned against the wall as I lightly rake my
nails over his upper body, causing lines of full blush wherever I wander.

I lean real close to lick the peaks and valleys of his muscled abs,
then trail up his chest along his left side until I come to rest by his armpit
where I notice a small, short, discreetly manscaped thatch of soft brownish
blond hair. I breathe as deeply as I
can…as if I’ve been trapped underwater for ages and I’m finally allowed a
beautiful earthly scent.

Again he makes an attempt to reciprocate—and my nipples do ache for
his rough callused fingers to make them twitch—but I just can’t stop myself.

I’m on my knees, not caring if I shred my stockings, unbuckling his
pants.

His head goes back, body goes limp, and I hear him say, “You’re so
fucking amazing!”

I sometimes believe I am.

I can remember in college having boyfriends who thought I was a good
lover and seemed to want me with an insatiable appetite.

At least that’s what I thought.

What about marriage turned me into such a dud?

The pants are soon down, off, along with his boxers and boots.

I want him completely naked, as I envisioned.

The legs are like those of a stallion. Perhaps he works out in the basement gym we
heard about on the tour, or maybe all of the grunt work from his training and
probie duties have sculpted this Adonis.
I let my fingers cascade down the thickness of his flesh, the hairless
feel of his legs causing my heart to hammer against my ribcage and my pussy to
melt against the black lace.

I can’t stop kissing his robust thighs and powerful calves.

Kisses of lust. Kisses of
gratefulness.

Thank you, Fireman Paul! I want to shout. For helping
me remember this kind of living. For
helping me know that all of this is still possible.

And finally I take the time to stare at his bull’s eye.

More curved than I imagined, but not one iota less beautiful.

The sight of it so rigid and hard without it even being
touched—simply because of my presence, my ministrations everywhere else on his
body—leaves me breathless.

It seems even more powerful and magnificent because—unlike what I
had envisioned when I welcomed him into my bed—and clearly not a practice from
my generation—there is not a follicle of hair anywhere, the full shaft revealed
along with every curvy detail of his prized balls.

The smooth skin of his cock flowing seamlessly onto his hard creamy
stomach makes it that much more princely and grand.

I kiss him there.

I kiss his cock all over.

I kiss it like it’s my long lost lover and I’m just so happy we’re
in the same room again.